


False Pretense

by shine_alive (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Gangbang, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Other, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/shine_alive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry falls into Death Eaters’ merciless hands, and must carry out the greatest pretense of his life simply to survive. However, somewhere along the way, he stops acting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Pretense

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt [#41](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/67791.html?thread=902863#t902863) by dragontara
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Mab for beta-ing! This was, in all honesty, exciting to write. Dragontara, I took some liberties with the prompt, but I hope I created something that you’ll enjoy.

The twinging ache in Harry’s bare knees against the cold ground brought him back to consciousness. He opened his sticky eyelids and looked up to see through smudged glasses the pale, jeering figure that had haunted the past several years of his life, staring down at him haughtily with half a dozen Death Eaters at his command.

Harry jerked back in surprise, but his movement was limited. He felt his arms spread wide, pulled apart by suspended chains that crossed the small, dank cement cell. He was naked, the hairs on his exposed arms raised from the cold. Cuffs affixed to the floor entrapped his ankles and kept him in a kneeling position. 

“The Boy Who Lived,” said Voldemort, calling Harry’s attention back, his thin lips drawn back to reveal his blackened teeth in a cackling laugh. “And still lives! But now, Harry Potter, I’m afraid your troublemaking days are over.”

“Nothing’s over,” Harry spat, meeting Voldemort’s yellowed eyes. “You don’t know anything, not even about the weakness in your own ranks.” The assertion was a bluff; Harry had no idea how the Death Eaters’ ranks conducted themselves. 

“My dear boy,” hissed Voldemort, “you are back in Hogwarts. You see, even the school has given herself to my rule. There is no one left.”

“You’ll never find them all,” Harry retorted confidently.

“You mean to tell me that the children and fools we found at Inverness, Hamilton, and Carlisle were not the end of it?”

Harry schooled his features into careful rigidity. “You’ll never know,” he replied simply.

“You lie,” Voldemort hissed, drawing his hand back. Harry did not cower, even when the force of the blow whipped his head to the side. “Your ‘Golden Trio’ is gone, and you are a gift—for me. Your time is over, my dear boy.” He turned and left the cell, his billowing grey-green robes swirling behind him, the rest of the Death Eaters following him out.

Harry sagged in his bonds when the heavy wooden door swung shut and a key turned in the lock. Since the remaining opposition to Voldemort’s regime had fled Hogwarts, not once had Harry felt so drained and numb. Even hearing an account of the dead after the night of the battle had been easier than knowing that Voldemort had found and indubitably destroyed the main strongholds of Dumbledore’s Army and the Order.

Several hours later, rough hands shook him awake too soon. He had drifted into an exhausted, fitful sleep. “Wake up,” a voice ordered. Harry felt the metal shackles unclasp his wrists and feet.

He was too exhausted to fight as a blond man strapped the stiff collar snugly around his neck and Transfigured a thin necklace in his hand into a heavy chain that latched itself to a ring in the centre of the humiliating accessory. The heavyset older man who had released Harry from the cuffs kicked him in the back of the legs. Harry slumped to his hands and knees on the ground.

They led Harry, crawling, out of the dungeons and through the castle. The sky outside the windows was dark and Harry caught himself, dirty and grimy and completely naked, in their reflections. 

“Hurry up,” snapped the younger of Harry’s captors, yanking on the leash.

When they entered the Great Hall, the near-silence erupted into an excited, hushed buzz as students and staff alike turned their eyes on Harry’s naked, crawling form. Only two of the tables actually seated students; the other two tables, as well as the professors’ table at the front of the room, overflowed with Death Eaters. 

Presiding over the hall in Dumbledore’s old seat was Voldemort himself.

“Goyle! Nemerell! You have brought us something delightful,” exclaimed Voldemort with relish. “Come, Harry.”

Harry briefly considered the merits of refusing Voldemort’s order before the echoes of the Order’s mantra— _Harry must live_ —allowed self-preservation to win. He crawled up the steps.

“Very nice,” sighed Voldemort when Harry reached the table. “I presume you’re hungry, Harry.”

Harry remained silent.

“You’ll answer when the Dark Lord asks you a question!” screeched Bellatrix from Voldemort’s right hand, drawing out her wand.

“Hush, dear Bella, we don’t want to scare our guest,” said Voldemort. “Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry quietly.

“Good.” Voldemort waved his hand. An elf appeared from the shadows to set a covered dish before him. He lifted the cover, making sure Harry saw the rare steak on the plate, before pushing it toward Harry. “Eat.”

Harry hated his own eagerness in snatching up the silver fork, but he could not quell the yawning maw of his hunger.

“It’s our lord’s favourite food out of these kitchens, the Mudblood dish!” giggled Bellatrix. “Well? Why aren’t you eating, boy?”

Harry paused. “Mudblood?” he asked.

Voldemort smiled. “Courtesy of your friend Justin Finch-Fletchley, yes.”

Harry dropped the fork.

“You will eat, Harry,” Voldemort commanded.

“No,” Harry growled.

 _“Imperio,”_ said Voldemort with a casual flick of his wrist in Harry’s direction. “Eat.”

The meat smelled so good. Harry cursed his own clumsiness in dropping the fork and snatched it up from the floor. He tore into the meat, moaning as his teeth sank into the flesh, swallowing before he finished chewing. It was savoury, salty, and gone too soon; he licked his lips in pleasure.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it, my boy?” crooned Voldemort. _“Finite Incantatem.”_

For a moment, Harry felt disoriented; his stomach felt uncomfortably full, not empty, and the juices of fat and seasoning stained his lips. Then, the realization of what he had done struck him, and he fell to his hands, retching, but nothing came up.

“That’s vile,” he snapped and spat on the ground, trying to rid his mouth of the disturbingly delicious taste.

“Oh, no, my boy. I’m always right.” Voldemort cleared the table with a flick of his wand and pointed to Harry. _“Levicorpus!”_

Harry jerked up into the air and settled on the hard polished table-top with his backside facing Voldemort. As soon as Voldemort leered at him, Harry understood his intentions. He bit down on his lip, too proud to beg for Voldemort not to act.

“Yes, quite delightful,” sighed Voldemort, his leathery fingertips prodding at Harry’s body and spreading his arse cheeks apart. When Harry flinched, one of Harry’s captors from below the steps held up his wand in warning. 

Voldemort’s bone-dry fingers breached the ring of Harry’s muscles and Harry could not contain the soft cry that escaped his lips, the stretch and tug burning his sensitive skin. The fingers left him a moment later and Harry breathed a sigh of relief, only to scream as Voldemort’s erect prick pierced his body in one quick, sudden stroke. 

The Dark Lord gripped Harry’s hips and pulled out, only to slam back in with bruising force. Harry cried out, his voice cracking and resounding and his tears staining his glasses as his body swayed back and forth from the rhythm of the thrusts and their searing pain. A few moments into his humiliation, he felt a warm viscous slickness engulf Voldemort’s cock as it continued to impale him. He could not contain his shouts, and shout he did, until his throat felt sore and they died away into whimpers—but he would not beg for mercy.

“Draco!” called Voldemort. Harry’s head jerked up, his eyes wildly searching the Great Hall. In the far corner, Draco Malfoy rose from his seat and strode up the aisle until he stood beside Harry, who was still grimacing in pain.

“My lord?” asked Draco, not sparing a glance for his childhood nemesis’ ongoing rape. He neither looked like the malicious boy Harry once knew nor the trembling coward of sixth year; he looked poised, exuding the confidence of status

“Come help our friend find some pleasure too. I’m afraid I’ve been selfish,” crooned Voldemort.

“Yes, my lord.” Draco gracefully crawled onto the table to kneel next to Harry’s form, his movements methodical as he ran his fingers down Harry’s sides and teased his nipples and touched the place where his thighs and pelvis met before spitting in his palm and beginning to stroke Harry’s cock in earnest.

Harry could not help the way his cock reacted so quickly to Draco’s touch, filling to an aching hardness. Draco’s thumb rubbed across Harry’s sensitive head, and Harry moaned and writhed while Voldemort cackled behind him and thrust even harder into Harry, occasionally brushing his prostate and making him buck in unwanted pleasure.

“Don’t,” he hissed through gritted teeth as he tried to disengage himself from his overwhelming arousal. He shook his head, but Draco’s hand stroked him relentlessly and Voldemort’s pace only increased as his grunts and occasional manic gasping laughter.

When Harry cried out again, it was in pleasure and not pain as he arched his back and came in Draco’s hand, his body going rigid with the long-forgotten coital bliss rushing through his veins.

Voldemort laughed, a dry crackling sound, as his thrusts became erratic and his breath came more quickly. “Now that my guest has enjoyed himself,” he panted, “I will take what is—mine—”

He came inside Harry with a breathless grunt and Harry tried to repress the urge to squirm from the thick, slimy fluid inside him.

Voldemort slipped out from Harry’s arse; Draco immediately moved his hand and clenched it into a fist, still slick with Harry’s come. When Harry finally glanced over his shoulder, he swallowed the rising bile in his throat when he saw the grey, withered flesh of Voldemort’s limp, dangling cock, covered in blood from Harry’s torn entrance.

“Take him away,” Voldemort sighed as he sank into his seat, his eyes sliding shut in their dark, sunken sockets. “We’ve had quite enough fun for one night.”

Gingerly, Harry crawled off the table and down the steps to his jailers, who reattached the chain to his collar and paraded him back down the aisle. He felt the eyes of everyone in the hall, fixed on the mess of blood and come dripping from his torn entrance. 

Harry was again cuffed and chained in the cell, this time on his back. The cold of the stone floor seeped into Harry’s bones and he shivered violently, trying not to think of the torn, bloodied mess of his anus or the sensations, vile and orgiastic, that he had experienced.

His eyelids slid shut despite the discomfort of his situation, exhaustion and a desire for escape clouding his mind. 

Some time later, he woke to the sound of muffled voices outside his door. He heard words, low at first, turned snappish as the exchange dragged on.

“Who are you to keep me from entering? You’re defying the Dark Lord every passing second,” said Draco.

“The Dark Lord? He specifically told me not to let anyone in or out,” snarled Harry’s jailer.

Harry could almost hear the sneer in Draco’s voice. “The Dark Lord’s told me to clean his little toy up. But,” he continued, his voice carrying menacing undertones, “if you wish to be responsible when the Dark Lord next sees the Potter boy, still reeking and disgusting, that’s fine with me as well.”

After a moment of silence, a key turned in the door of Harry’s cell, the click amplified by the dank cement walls. The door creaked open, and the heels of Draco’s boots clicked against the ground.

Harry’s eyes remained closed.

“I know you’re not sleeping, Potter,” whispered Draco. Harry slowly opened his eyes to see Draco’s wand-tip alarmingly close to his face. He flinched, expecting a curse or jinx to hit him square between the eyes.

 _“Tergeo,”_ said Draco. Harry released a sigh of relief as he felt the dried tear-tracks on his face melt away. Draco slowly swept his wand across the length of Harry’s body, cleaning him, until he reached Harry’s arse. He bent to peer at it, and Harry flushed with embarrassment. 

_“Episkey,”_ Draco murmured.

Harry shouted in unexpected agony as the torn walls of his anus mended themselves with unnatural speed, the sensitive tissue sewing itself together. The shock shook him and he gasped, sweat breaking out over his skin, while Draco moved back before him, bending down but avoiding his eyes. 

Neither spoke for a long time. Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, his chains clanking loudly. His arse no longer hurt when he sat back. This way, he felt at least a bit more Draco’s equal, even if he was naked and chained.

“Is it true, what you said?” asked Harry finally.

Draco’s gaze danced upon his face before skirting away. “About what?”

“About Vold—”

Draco’s hand slapped over Harry’s mouth, and Harry let out a muffled exclamation of indignation. “There’s still a Taboo on it,” Draco warned, slowly sliding his hand away. “The Dark Lord is disrespected when anyone says his name lightly. He could punish you by death.”

“He’ll do it anyway,” Harry snapped, pausing to poke his tongue around the inside of his lips to check for blood.

“No. He’s having far too much fun,” said Draco, his thumb sliding over Harry’s lips in an unexpectedly intimate gesture. “Unluckily for you. The Dark Lord—he does have something planned; you’d best be prepared.”

Harry did not respond.

“I’ve been in here too long,” said Draco, standing abruptly and striding out of the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

Harry slumped to the floor and curled up again, craving anyone’s kind touch, even Draco Malfoy’s, to the embrace of the unyielding floor. His lips twitched when he remembered the pad of Draco’s finger sliding across them with unwarranted gentleness. The youngest Malfoy’s actions made little sense.

But, as Harry began to ponder the possibilities, perhaps they were not so insensible after all.

A rumour had circulated among the student body when they were in sixth year—an eternity ago, it seemed. At the time, Harry had only heard snatches of the gossip, and he was too preoccupied with finding damning evidence of Draco’s guilt that he had ignored it altogether. But now they came back, resurfacing from the depths of his memory, whispers that Draco Malfoy—perhaps—fancied Harry Potter. The son of a convicted Death Eater had feelings for the boy who not only lived but put his father in jail and disgraced his family. Indeed, they said that Draco practiced the Dark Arts to get the Chosen One’s attention.

Harry shook himself out of his reverie. He must be truly desperate, relying on sixth-years’ gossip to formulate his plan of action. But he realized that he had no alternative as he shivered violently against the cold floor. He could surrender to Voldemort tomorrow night, and the night after that, and every night henceforth.

Or, he thought sleepily as he closed his eyes, he could seduce Draco Malfoy.

~*~*~

Too soon, it seemed, Greyback slapped him awake, dragging him from his ignominious cell into the Great Hall. The lingering scents of food and the morning light signalled that it was after breakfast but before lunch. Greyback dragged him up the steps at the front of the hall, which had been cleared of its tables and chairs, and forced him into a kneeling position, locking his wrists into chains whose other ends were suspended in the air, affixed to nothing.

“The Dark Lord’s come up with a better use for your arse and lips while he’s busy. You’ll love it, you little whore.” He kicked apart Harry’s knees, and Harry tried not to cry out. “The little kiddies get their exam results back today, and the best students will get a piece of you.” He gave Harry’s arse a slap before standing back up with a grunt. “Some motivation for ’em in the future, heh.”

Harry wanted to believe Greyback was making this up, but he could not.

Pureblood boys in full adolescence sporting the aquiline noses and defined jawlines so common among pureblood families came in twos and threes at first, seeking to prove their manhood and emulate the Dark Lord. Harry screamed when the first boy shoved his erect, still-growing cock into Harry without preparation, ripping the freshly mended skin again. His cries were muffled by the prick the other boy shoved into his open mouth.

“He’s fucking gagging for it,” the boy in front of Harry laughed, fisting his hand into Harry’s dark, messy hair. “Gryffindor faggot right where he belongs.”

He pulled out and came on Harry’s face, the milky warmth streaking over Harry’s eyebrow and cheek. The other boy came in his arse with a grunt, and Harry went limp with relief as the pair retreated.

Two others took their places.

He was fucked, slapped, and scratched with fingernails and knives while the hall filled with students for lunch. They took Harry without mercy or remorse, some adding their come to the slimy mess inside Harry while others found new spots on Harry’s body to cover in their release. The youngest boy to share Harry’s arse was, by Harry’s judgment, a second- or third-year, perhaps sporting one of his first erections, overeager to spend himself. Another near Harry’s age struck him repeatedly and knocked the glasses off his face until Harry began to use his tongue and bob his head, actively sucking on the prick in his mouth while tears streamed down his face.

Pansy Parkinson set a precedent for girls when she marched up the steps, crushing Harry’s glasses under her shoe, yanking his head up and shoving his face against the junction of her spread legs, grinding her nether lips against his mouth until his tongue found her clit and her grip eased. He licked at her pussy for a very long time until her legs trembled with the force of her climax and he found his nose and chin smeared with her juices.

After a while, the flow of students finally stemmed. The come and blood trickling down his sides began to dry, and Harry finally dared hope that the ordeal was finished. But one more student mounted the steps, his shoes clicking against the marble.

“Get him good, Draco,” a student shouted from below, followed by various whistles and catcalls.

Draco Malfoy stopped before Harry and undid the front of his trousers, freeing his half-erect prick and stepping forward so that the head pressed against Harry’s cheek. “Suck,” he said simply.

Harry dared to look up and see Draco’s lips pressed in a thin line. “And if I refuse?” he asked.

Draco slapped him quickly and Harry yelped, eliciting laughs from the students below. Draco’s hand curled into a fist and he closed his eyes. “If that’s what you want, fine,” he muttered, moving to stand behind Harry. To Harry’s surprise, Draco stuck two fingers in the slippery mess of come and blood in Harry’s entrance, stretching and preparing him, albeit futilely.

Harry swallowed and tried to find the right words.

“You’re better than this,” he whispered, quiet enough so that no one else could hear.

Draco’s fingers stopped moving inside him.

“Please,” he whimpered weakly, mentally congratulating himself on the weakness and desperation in his voice, “Please don’t do this, Draco.”

Draco withdrew his fingers, but replaced them quickly with his fully hard cock, slamming into Harry with mechanical thrusts. Harry allowed himself to shake and sob quietly. The tears were mostly an act, though they came easily enough. He shuddered under Draco’s touch, under Draco’s fingertips.

The initially rapid pace of Draco’s thrusts stuttered and slowed, and to Harry’s amazement, Draco Malfoy softened.

His limp cock slipped from Harry’s loose, slippery entrance. Draco slammed his hips against the backs of Harry’s thighs until he threw his head back and groaned, looking in the throes of pleasure. Harry knew it was an act.

Amid cheers and more whistles from below, Draco quickly tucked himself back in his pants and left.

~*~*~

Harry wanted to escape the day’s pain and humiliation, but could not fall asleep. Every beaten nerve in his body tensed when the door swung open and Draco entered. Like the night before, he knelt beside Harry and whispered the spells to clean and heal him.

“I wish you hadn’t done it,” murmured Harry, forcing pity and brokenness into his forlorn voice.

Draco looked away. “What?” he said defensively.

“I mean, I’d wanted—but not like that. Never like that.” He sniffed a little.

“You’re not making any sense, Potter.”

Harry looked up and stared unabashedly at Draco, who still wasn’t facing Harry. “It’s just…” Harry laughed humourlessly. “Whenever I imagined you fucking me, it never hurt so much.”

Draco’s head jerked up, his piercing grey eyes wide. “You—you imagined—”

“I—yes.”

“When was this?”

“Fuck. Sixth year, okay?” said Harry miserably. “I fancied you. I fancied myself in love with you.” He sniffed. “I convinced myself that I followed you because you were up to something, but really, I—” He hung his head. “In the end, it doesn’t matter. It was too much to hope for. It still is.”

He took a deep ragged breath at the end, surprised at how easily the lie came to him. Draco was silent and unmoving, still staring.

“Go ahead,” whispered Harry. “Laugh. Tell all your little Death Eater friends that you’ve got—”

“Wait.” Draco leaned in to grab Harry’s bare shoulders, and Harry’s heart jumped. He leaned in so close that Harry could feel his warm breath and smell the musky fragrance clinging to his skin. “Do you still fancy me?”

“What?” Harry looked up at Draco, eyes wide and guileless.

Draco swallowed visibly. “You heard me.”

“I suppose,” Harry whispered.

Harry had not prepared himself for Draco’s lips suddenly moving against his. Draco kissed him desperately and passionately, so suddenly that their teeth clinked together. His hands moved from Harry’s shoulders to the small of his back, holding him close. It was a sweet kiss, a charged kiss that made Harry’s stomach drop, that made Harry lean in to Draco’s hot touch and forget for a moment that he was acting.

“I fancied you too,” said Draco quietly when they had pulled apart. “I still do. I’m so sorry, Harry, but you know I had to. Today.” He squeezed Harry’s arms. “I serve and obey the Dark Lord.”

Harry sagged in his chains. “I know,” he replied in a small voice. “It’s not your fault.”

Draco leaned in to press another kiss against Harry’s mouth. “Is this all right?”

Harry smiled up at him sadly. “It’s all right.”

“Oh,” Draco exclaimed suddenly, reaching into his black, high-collared jacket. “I forgot.” He withdrew Harry’s glasses, mended and cleaned, and set them on Harry’s face.

“They were a bitch to fix,” said Draco. “But it’s done.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, blinking as he world—and Draco’s face—came into full focus. Draco smiled gently, his features softening—and brightening.

“You look much better when you smile,” Harry commented in earnest.

Draco’s smile faded. “I can’t do that very much anymore,” he said. “Smile.”

“I know,” said Harry. “But you can’t help it. I know.”

“I have to leave,” said Draco. “I’ve really been here too long this time.”

Harry did not have to pretend to look disappointed. “I wish you could stay.”

Draco kissed Harry again and stood up, his face hard again. “But I can’t.”

~*~*~

Voldemort did not send for Harry the next day or the day after that, nor did Draco visit him. From listening to his jailers’ increasingly relaxed conversations outside his door, Harry found that the Dark Lord and most of the Death Eaters had left to subdue several of the Ministry of Magic’s employees who had secretly resisted the Imperius curse.

They returned victorious.

Once more, Harry returned to the Great Hall naked on a leash, held in a corner by one of his younger jailers as Voldemort rose to preside over the feast.

“I have a servant to honour tonight,” Voldemort proclaimed, his voice instilling a respectful hush over the students and Death Eaters in the hall. “This young man, who many of you admire as a leader and role model in our world, has coordinated the attack against those who seek to dirty our lineages and bring shame upon all wizards.” He extended his arm. “Draco Malfoy, my boy, come here.”

Harry saw Draco rise gracefully from his seat at the Death Eaters’ table and take his place next to Voldemort, head bowed in acquiescence. 

“Though you’ve a traitor for a mother and a coward for a father, you have proven yourself, my boy,” said Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy, who sat beside Draco’s vacated seat, looked down at his half-eaten meal. “For your service to my name and glory, I find it fitting to grant you a prize of your choosing.”

“I am honoured, my lord,” said Draco quietly.

Voldemort turned. “Whatever you ask, Draco, I shall give it to you.”

“I do not wish to be presumptuous, my lord.”

“Ah, nonsense. Name your prize.”

“If it is not too much, my lord,” Draco began, then paused. “I—I would like to have Harry Potter given to me.”

A shocked murmur permeated the Great Hall, and Harry flushed, knowing that most eyes were currently fixed on his naked form.

Voldemort began to laugh, his face filled with grim, ugly mirth. “Harry Potter, my dear Draco! Harry Potter!” he chuckled. “Well, I see no reason why not—you have his wand, and now you want his body—but of course! You may have him—on two conditions.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“I must have access to our guest at any time I wish, and your service to me must remain exceedingly excellent.”

Draco bowed. “I understand. Thank you, my lord; you are most kind.”

“Yes, yes. Harry Potter! Come.”

Harry’s jailer led him to the front of the hall and pushed him to his knees at Voldemort and Draco’s feet.

“Draco, you must mark your property now.”

“With what, my lord?”

Voldemort reached into his sleeve, withdrawing and unsheathing a small, wickedly sharp dagger. “I believe this will suffice.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. Draco took the dagger from Voldemort, bowing in thanks, and moved behind Harry’s kneeling form.

“No,” Harry gasped. “No, you can’t!”

The toe of Draco’s boot landed against Harry’s rib cage and he bent over, howling in pain. “Shut up,” muttered Draco before digging the blade between Harry’s shoulder blades.

With every cut of the knife, Harry screamed and writhed, his body convulsing with such force that Voldemort motioned two additional Death Eaters to hold him down. The shock spread from his back to the ends of every nerve, so that while Draco etched into his skin, his fingers and toes curled with the same pain. The tip of the knife curved, scooping out warm quivering slivers of Harry’s skin. Harry’s body went rigid as he kept screaming.

But no matter how much Harry cried out and how much he tried to squirm away from the relentless knife, the slicing pain kept coming, moving across his back in agonizing strokes.

When Draco finished, he wiped the blade of the knife against his blazer and returned it to Voldemort. Harry slumped against the floor. Warm trails of blood tickled his back and sides as they dripped down his skin. 

“Your craftsmanship is very nice,” observed Voldemort, before baring his teeth in a smile and waving his hands. “Go, Draco, enjoy your new toy tonight.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Draco, bowing before picking up Harry’s leash and yanking. Harry, still stunned, barely managed to drag himself behind his new master.

As they moved away from the Great Hall and through Hogwarts toward Draco’s own chambers, Draco barked commands and hurled insults at Harry. When Harry’s raw hands and knees moved onto Draco’s plush cream carpet and the door shut and locked behind him, however, Draco changed.

“Harry,” he gasped, falling to his knees and kissing him. Harry allowed himself to sob as Draco’s mouth covered his. The pain did not leave—every movement was pure agony, even when he held still.

“Do something, Draco,” he begged, his voice raw from screaming. “Please. I can’t—please!”

“I can’t heal it,” said Draco. “He’ll want to see it. I—I think I can try—” He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the mess of blood and sinew between Harry’s shoulder blades. _“Vulnera Sanentur.”_

Harry’s body went rigid as he felt the wetness around the wounds congeal and harden, taking away the moisture along with some of the pain.

 _“Tergeo,”_ Draco said. Encrusted blood peeled off from Harry’s skin and disappeared. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Harry replied shakily, slowly breathing and relaxing again when the tingling, solidifying sensation across his wounds stopped.

“I can only say it once, to staunch the flow of blood,” said Draco, looking apologetic. “I can’t make it heal. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harry said wearily. “I know.”

Draco pressed his forehead against Harry’s, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he breathed again. He pulled away and tugged Harry gently to his feet. His fingers reached for the collar around Harry’s neck and undid the clasp, allowing the chain to fall to the ground.

“Thanks,” murmured Harry.

“You should take a bath. Here,” said Draco, leading Harry by the hand into the adjoining bathroom. 

While Draco filled the obscenely large and luxurious porcelain tub with water and poured drops of oil into it, Harry turned to look at his naked back in the mirror. Draco had carved the letters _D M_ into his back. He suppressed the urge to vomit when he saw the jagged tears in his skin in detail covered with dark red scabs and clots.

“Don’t look,” said Draco. “Come here.”

Harry sank into the hot, fragrant water with a small moan of pleasure as his stiff, battered body found relief. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the tub, sighing.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Draco.

Harry’s eyes flew open. Draco looked caught between feigned nonchalance and utter embarrassment. 

“Sure,” Harry replied, also trying to sound indifferent, but his cock twitched when Draco turned and stripped off his blazer and shirt.

Draco sank into the water next to him, naked, and gave him a tentative smile, which he returned before leaning in. Draco closed the gap, crashing his soft lips against Harry’s as Harry’s hands moved from the nape of Draco’s neck down his oil-slicked torso and to his waist.

“Are you sure you can—” began Draco.

“Yes,” said Harry, turning to straddle Draco, his hand stroking Draco’s prick under the water. “Please.”

It felt nothing like the ordeals imposed upon Harry before. Draco’s fingers worked past Harry’s tight entrance one by one, stretching him open, while his mouth ran down Harry’s bared neck and collarbones. He sank down on Draco’s prick, slick with the oil in the bath, and made waves in the tub while Draco thrust up deep into him and stroked his cock with a steady hand.

Draco came with a loud groan stifled against the curve where Harry’s neck met his shoulder, and Harry followed not soon after, coming into the water.

Afterward, Draco cleaned up the spilled water while Harry towelled himself and Draco dry. They lay in Draco’s bed in the dark, more than large enough for two, and Draco held Harry close against him. Inwardly, Harry marvelled that seducing Draco and acting in love with him proved much easier than he had imagined.

He almost didn’t have to act at all.

~*~*~

The next morning, Draco left Harry to attend to Voldemort.

“Don’t go anywhere other than this room or the bathroom,” he warned as he buttoned his blazer before the mirror. His reflection glanced at Harry, who was still in bed. “And if anyone asks, you’re currently in absolute pain.”

“I actually am,” said Harry, rolling onto his stomach to reveal the partially scabbed-over _D M_ in his skin. “The spell’s wearing off.”

Draco sat next to him on the bed. “Here,” he said, recasting the charm. Harry sighed in relief, turning back onto his back, and Draco quickly kissed him. “Stay put, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” joked Harry.

To his surprise, Draco shuddered. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, heading toward the door. “I’ll be back later.”

As soon as he left, Harry scrambled off the bed and began to look for ways to escape, testing the windows in the room and the bathroom. He found them all charmed shut, and he felt briefly offended before he realized with a twinge of conscience that he was, in fact, breaking Draco’s trust. Frustrated, he tried the doorknobs to the other inconspicuous doors in the walls. Locked, cabinet, closet—

Study. Harry pushed the door open and entered the well-lit room. Books lined the shelves on the walls, and an imposing desk sat in the far corner. Harry perused the stacks of papers on its surface—Death Eater communications, Ministry papers, personal correspondence, a Spanish Quidditch magazine. Harry realized that the beautiful bedroom lacked a personal touch because everything Draco needed, he put in the study.

 _You have his wand, and now you want his body,_ Voldemort had said.

Harry began searching frantically at the thought of having his wand in hand again. After scattering the contents of the desk’s surface, he began rummaging in the drawers. The first held odds and ends—quills, parchment scraps, vials—and the second held files containing Ministry information. The third—

As soon as Harry’s hand touched the handle to the third drawer, he felt himself lurched back by an unseen force. He cried out in shock as ropes, generated from seemingly nothing, held him down against the ground. The more he struggled, the tighter they became, until he held his breath and stilled as if the ropes were the Devil’s Snare. The ropes stopped pulling tighter but remained snug against his limbs, torso, and every other part of him around which they were looped. Immobilized, Harry had no choice to wait.

When Draco returned several hours later and saw Harry trapped on the floor, his face turned white and then flushed angry red. “What were you doing?” he seethed, pulling out his wand and freeing Harry from the ropes with a flick of his wand. “You’re not to be in here!”

“My wand,” gasped Harry, gulping in air. “It’s in there, isn’t it? The third drawer!”

“You’re not to have it,” Draco snapped, his eyes steely. “The Dark Lord has entrusted it to my safekeeping.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking more strained than usual. “The spell keeps away spies and thieves. Untrustworthy sorts.” He looked at Harry sidelong. “I had trusted you.”

Harry’s mind whirled as he searched for an excuse. “I was doing it for us, Draco!” he cried in desperation. “Don’t you see? Vol—the Dark Lord won’t let us be as long as you serve him and he has me! Letting you have me—that’s not the end of it. I don’t belong to you—I belong to him—I don’t want to belong to him! I want to belong to you,” he added almost truthfully.

Draco’s features softened. He crouched to the ground and placed his arms tentatively around Harry, who relaxed into his touch, the agitation leaving him.

“I’d like that too,” admitted Draco.

“Then help me destroy him,” pleaded Harry.

“All these years, I’ve been miserable here—but I’ve been safe. He’s killed my mother for treason and destroyed my father, but not me. You’ve seen him, Harry,” he went on, and Harry nodded. “He’s a powerful madman. How do you think we’ll defeat him?”

Harry turned to look into Draco’s eyes. They were stormy, grey, troubled.

“By having a plan,” he answered, sounding more confident than he felt.

~*~*~

For the first time in Harry’s life, things went according to plan.

His prediction came true a week later when Voldemort demanded that Draco bring Harry to his seat in the Great Hall. When Harry knelt, naked and subdued, Voldemort did not know that Harry clutched in his right hand his wand swathed in a precious square of the Invisibility Cloak. While Harry gagged on Voldemort’s cock, surprisingly responsive for a corpselike body, Draco begged leave to work on some trans-national propaganda scheme.

But that was a lie—one of the few Draco had ever told his master, and only because Harry’s lips on his cock sufficiently distracted him from checking Draco’s honesty. Instead, Draco made his way into the dungeons in a separate part of the castle, stunning four guards on the way, and freed the few wizards and witches who remained opposed to Voldemort’s regime from their putrid, too-small cell. As Draco explained why he had come and what the freed prisoners must do, passing out wands to each of them, Ron Weasley stared at him as if he had grown a goblin’s nose; Granger, as Draco expected, took the news with aplomb.

When Voldemort began fucking Harry in earnest, his dead prick driving inside Harry’s body, Harry screamed—he could never become accustomed to the sensation of his tender nether orifice being brutally ripped apart. Voldemort snarled and thrust in again, and eventually Harry’s cries dwindled away to soft snuffles.

Beneath the sounds of Voldemort’s pleasure, he distinctly heard a sound he had not registered before: a soft snap. Their signal. Harry’s fingers delved under the material of the Invisibility cloak and grasped his wand. 

Killing Voldemort was easy, it was fast, and Harry now had a wand in his hand and Death Eaters in the Great Hall turning to him, wands raised, shouting in alarm and anger.

 _“Stupefy!”_ screamed a familiar female voice.

Seeing Hermione, covered in filth but alive and stunning black-cloaked figures in rapid succession, Harry pulled away from Voldemort’s still-erect cock and joined her and Ron. The spells rolled from his lips, slowly at first, then faster and more easily. A sudden sort of joy filled him, a wild kind of happiness from knowing that everything had finally _ended,_ and he fired off one spell after another until the Death Eaters who had come at them were all petrified or stunned and he, still naked, bent to catch his breath.

“Harry,” Ron breathed. “Bloody hell, mate, the old bugger really got to you, didn’t he?”

And Harry was hugging Ron despite the stench rolling in waves from his body, laughing in victory and misery all at once, and hugging Hermione too. He was naked, and everyone he still loved had seen him bent over for Voldemort, but the Dark Lord himself was finally, indubitably _dead._

“You—I knew you could do it,” Hermione whispered, already wiping away an errant tear from her eye. “It was hard to believe, but we knew you would win, and—”

“—and Draco Malfoy?” asked Ron with an incredulous laugh. “The Slytherin snot letting us out of the cell—I’ll never forget that. Dunno what you did to make Malfoy so besotted with you, but you’re a bloody fine actor if you could—”

But Harry’s sweet joy turned sour in his mouth when he saw Draco, who had slowly and uncertainly approached the trio from behind Ron, freeze in his tracks. His eyes met Harry’s; they turned from shocked to confused and, finally, to anger.

“Ron, if you could shut up for one second—”

It was too late. Draco’s eyes had narrowed, and he turned abruptly, stalking away from them and through the excited fray of battered but victorious wizards and witches.

“Draco!” Harry called, frantic as he chased after Draco. How he wished Ron had chosen another time to divulge his speculations. “Draco, wait!”

Draco stopped abruptly, and Harry almost crashed into him.

“A bloody act,” he forced out through gritted teeth, the lines of his sneer deep in his face. Harry had never seen him so furious or frightening. “Congratulations, Potter, you’ve made me a fool. I risked my life and yours and the lives of everyone here to get rid of Voldemort because I loved you and I believed you loved me and it was an _act.”_

“No, please, listen,” Harry begged, swallowing as he tried to put his thoughts into words. He still wasn’t sure what he thought. “All right, it’s true, I started off pretending to fancy you so that you would help me,” he admitted. “But it’s not that way anymore. I—I actually do.”

Draco snorted, an uncharacteristic and overly contemptuous sound. “And I’m to believe _that?”_

“It’s true!” insisted Harry.

“It’s not,” Draco muttered, “and we both know it. Now piss off, Potter, I’ve got the Manor to return to, business to attend, and you’ve got a Prophet interview you’ll probably want to attend.” He turned away, exiting the Great Hall.

Harry followed. “Please, just _listen—”_

Draco glanced over his shoulder at Harry and waved his wand offhandedly in his direction. _“Stupefy.”_

Perhaps it was the sudden coldness and indifference in Draco’s voice that brought unbidden tears to Harry’s eyes and not the pain as he flew back into the air and slammed against the marble floor. He told Ron and Hermione that the move hurt his back. That he might need to see a Healer—for a while. But inside, he knew that no Healer could fix that which he singlehandedly broke, the nascent relationship that could have been.

~*~*~

 _Three years later_

~*~*~

Draco pored over the small stack of documents he brought home to the Manor, sipping from a glass of wine as he contemplated the merits of acknowledging and labelling wizarding supremacist groups versus ignoring them and thus robbing them of their legitimacy. Tonight, as with every night, the Ministry kept Draco blissfully busy. The Department of Wizarding Policy, whose heads constantly touted Draco as its brightest analyst, liked to leave last-minute work in his Ministry office and expect quality review and recommendations the very next day.

He minded, but only a little. The documents and articles made the Manor a little less lonely. 

A screech at his window startled him and he dropped the papers onto his table as he looked up at the source of the sound. A rather ugly owl with an envelope in its beak flapped at the window, demanding entry.

“At this time?” muttered Draco, but he stood and unlocked the window, letting in the owl as well as a frigid gust of late winter wind. The owl dropped the letter on the ground and half-waddled, half-flapped over to the fireplace, fanning out its wings for warmth.

Draco rarely received letters. He cracked the wax and unfolded the parchment, curious.

_Draco,  
I’ve thought over some things since the last time we spoke. Can we meet again sometime? I will be at the Black Lake on Friday evening at 9. I’d like to see you._

_Best,_

_H.P._

_P.S. The pub, not the lake by Hogwarts._

Draco didn’t realize he had held his breath as he read and re-read the letter until something sharp jabbed at his leg and he jumped. “Ow! What the—oh, you,” he sighed heavily, looking down at the brown owl that insistently tugged at his trousers. “All right.” He rummaged in his top drawer and let the owl snatch the treat from the palm of his hand.

Upon a third perusal, Draco’s heart beat faster and more heavily than he would have liked, finally internalizing Harry’s messy scrawl. He wished he could indifferently toss the letter aside and return to the documents still waiting on his desk, but his fingers gripped the edge of the parchment tightly, unwilling to let go.

Not once since the moment Draco discovered Harry’s schemes did he forgive Harry. Even now, his lip curled in a sneer when he remembered the way he had tended to Harry’s lacerations, solicitous as a proper lover, because he _did_ love Harry and thought the feeling was mutual. 

Now, he wished he had dug the knife in deeper. But not really.

Seeing Harry would reopen the just-mended wounds of the past like a blade parting familiar flesh. But even as he tried to convince himself that Harry was spewing off nonsense, his pathetic heart leapt at the thought of Harry still wanting him.

“I’ve no reply for your master,” he said aloud to the owl, rising to open the window again. The brown owl reluctantly padded away from the fire, flapped to the windowsill to give Draco a baleful look, before flying away into the night-time wind.

For the next several days, Draco avoided making a decision or mental commitment one way or another. He did not have to seek distractions; they came to him in the form of a senior department chair’s new project proposal. Day and night, he invested himself into this short term project, until after the sun set on Friday night and his eyes couldn’t stop flickering to the neatly folded letter sitting by a stack of papers on his desk.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted and strained. The words had begun to blur. He realized that he no longer wanted to read and write and plan and outline. He wanted to see Harry.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

At ten minutes past nine, Draco inspected himself in the mirror. He looked nice, he thought, if perhaps several years older than his real age. Work-related stress and sleepless nights etched deeper lines around his mouth and eyes, but he still looked very much the same as he had three years ago. Tall, slim but not scrawny, fashionable, and _desirable—_ or so he had thought himself before Harry Potter had come and _acted._

The clock on the mantle ticked loudly, as if reminding Draco that he was late. Twelve minutes past nine now. _Good,_ thought Draco. _Let him wait._

He closed his eyes and Apparated to the pub, cursing quietly as he landed teetering on the edge of a puddle of snowmelt. Regaining his balance, he took a deep breath and tried to shake off the near-disastrous incident.

Draco swallowed, nervous for the first time in ages, as he pushed open the wooden door and stepped into the dimly lit space. The little pub was far enough out of the way that Draco’s colleagues and associates would not frequent it, but still respectable and comfortable enough. He slowly made his way to the bar, scanning the faces and the backs of heads for a sign—

And there Harry sat at the bar, staring off into space with half a glass of firewhiskey on the smooth wooden counter. Draco took a seat next to him, and he started with surprise. Draco didn’t meet his eyes.

“Hi,” began Harry. His voice sounded the same, just slightly shaky.

Draco ignored him. “Pure Malt, please.”

“Is Schletter’s all right?”

Draco tried not to roll his eyes. They were hardly comparable. “Yes, that’s fine.”

They drank in silence.

Finally, Harry turned to face Draco, who did not return the gesture. “Draco, please.”

“What do you want?” asked Draco, looking at his hands.

“Why do you assume I want anything?” retorted Harry, before sighing. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to—to talk.”

Draco turned to him then, looking at him with a mix of knowingness and accusation. “You just wanted to talk? Please.”

“Yes. Kind of,” said Harry. It was his turn to look down and fidget as Draco waited for an answer. “I was wondering if you could consider forgiving me and, you know. We could start again.”

“Start again?” Draco chuckled humourlessly as he drank a little more.

Harry nodded earnestly. “You never did hear me out that time,” he said, but not accusingly. “When Voldemort had me, I tried to get you to help me because I knew that deep down, you weren’t bad.”

“Of course,” said Draco bitterly, “no one’s bad. We’re all redeemable and perfect. Isn’t that great?”

“Just listen,” said Harry. “I faked it at first, to get your trust, to make you do things for me. But then I didn’t have to fake it anymore, because you would care for me and I felt safe with you. And even after you left, I was unsure, but I just know now that I really did like—love—you, and, well.” Harry glanced at Draco. “A second chance might be too much to ask for, but I’m asking.”

“You just _know,_ ” Draco deadpanned.

“Yeah. I do,” countered Harry, “because it’s hard, living without you. I don’t expect that you keep up with gossip—” here Draco snorted “—but last year, I broke up with Ginny.”

“Condolences? Congratulations? I’m not following.”

“It was unfair to her. You were always on my mind. Not her.”

Draco suddenly felt dizzy. “It’s a little late now, and besides, this situation hasn’t exactly been fair to me either.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to apologize,” confessed Harry, his green eyes holding Draco’s own. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

“And you think a simple _sorry_ would suffice to—”

Draco never finished his sentence. Harry leaned in too close and then he was kissing Draco, his fingers ghosting over his shoulder and the nape of his neck. After only a few short moments of resistance, Draco could hold back no longer. He returned kiss even more forcefully, gaining dominance over Harry, tongues and teeth mixing and clashing in the struggle. 

“Not here,” he gasped when he pulled away. A few other patrons stared at them in discomfort—they remained unrecognized, but indecorous. “Hold on to my arm.”

Harry obeyed, and Draco Apparated them directly back into his bedroom in the Manor.

They did not move gently, stripping off each other’s clothes and kissing with bites and nips. Draco shoved Harry, who fell on his back on the bed with a soft gasp, and moved down to kiss and suck at his jaw and neck while grinding his rapidly swelling cock into Harry’s erection. Harry’s hands fisted in his hair, moaning, rutting up against Draco in an obvious demonstration of need.

Draco reached down between them to slide his hand up and down both of their pricks pressed together, his pace steady despite the frenzy that had infected him. Harry whimpered and his hips thrust upward, trying to reach a faster pace, but Draco would not let him.

 _“Accio lube_. Turn over,” commanded Draco, and Harry released him to support himself on his elbows and knees, his legs spread and his arse high in the air. Draco swallowed at the sight of Harry’s tight entrance twitching and forced his hands to remain steady as he drizzled a generous amount of lubricant onto his fingers and pushed them into Harry to spread him open.

Draco found himself entranced and painfully hard simply from watching Harry’s body respond to his fingers alone. Harry rocked back to meet Draco’s fingers, driving them deeper inside him each time; Draco could not mistake Harry’s ring of pink muscle clench and twitch around his fingers.

After Draco withdrew his fingers from Harry with an obscenely loud squelch, he coated his own prick with lube and stroked it a few times before lining the head up with Harry’s now-loosened entrance.

“How badly do you want this?” asked Draco with forced nonchalance.

“Very badly,” Harry moaned. “Get on with it.” Thus encouraged, Draco pushed inside Harry with one thrust.

Harry’s hands fisted in the sheets and he buried his face in the sheets to muffle the whimpers and unbidden pleas that came from his lips. Draco began to thrust in earnest, rocking Harry back and forth on the bed with his force.

It really had been too long; Draco found himself already nearly at the edge simply from feeling Harry’s tight heat tighten around his cock. He leaned forward to press his lips against Harry’s shoulder blade, near the _D M_ that remained carved in Harry’s back, a permanent reminder of Draco Malfoy’s existence. The sound of his balls slapping against Harry’s skin accompanied Draco’s breathing, loud and increasingly erratic as tension began to build deep inside his belly. Harry’s upper arm moved up and down; Draco realized that Harry’s hand was flying across his own cock while Draco thrust into his arse.

“Here, let me,” Draco offered breathlessly, replacing Harry’s fingers with his own. He stroked Harry’s length rapidly and firmly, pausing to slide his thumb along the slit. Harry trembled, a shudder from deep within his core that even Draco felt. He teased the slit again and this time, Harry’s head dropped backward and he moaned.

“That’s right,” Draco breathed as his hand went back to stroking the shaft. “You love that.”

“I love it,” whimpered Harry. “Draco, please, I’m so close—”

“Come, Harry, I want to see you come.”

Harry’s voice was breathy and high-pitched as he arched his back and came all over Draco’s sheets, his body shaking from his climax as it travelled through his body in visible waves of sensitivity and satisfaction. The walls inside his arse tightened around Draco’s prick, and Draco had to brace his hands against the bed to make up for his shaking thighs.

Draco began thrusting deeper and faster—he could not help it; he sought more and more until he cried out and stilled, his climax hitting him and rendering him helpless as his muscles tensed and he came inside Harry.

They were quiet for a very long time after that, their exhausted pants dissolving into muted, steady breathing.

“I meant every word,” said Harry quietly, propping himself up on his elbow to look Draco in the eye. “I owe you many things and I’ll always be in your debt, but I’m also in love with you.”

Draco said nothing.

Harry sat up, his shoulders slumped. “I’ll be leaving, then,” he whispered, swinging one leg over the side of the bed.

“No,” said Draco, his hand grabbing Harry’s wrist. “Stay.”

“Should I?”

“Yes.”

Harry lay down again, resting against Draco’s chest. Draco’s arm lay splayed across the bed, partially trapped underneath Harry’s weight.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought, and wrapped the arm around Harry, bringing him closer.

~*~*~

In the morning, Draco woke to the sound of dripping. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pushing himself to a sitting position, he turned to look through his wide windows at the too-bright world outside.

The icicles melted along with the rest of the world, too eager to embrace spring after winter’s unforgiving chill. Some dripped water near the window, others onto a lower awning, and still others formed puddles on the ground. As Draco watched, the thinnest of the icicles abruptly detached from its overhang and clunked down the awning to crash audibly against the stone-paved ground below.

“Mmm, what was that?” asked Harry’s sleep-clogged voice. Draco turned back to Harry, who rubbed at his bleary, vividly green eyes. “I heard something…”

Smiling gently, Draco lay back down, his fingers stroking Harry’s skin.

“It’s nothing,” he answered. “Go back to sleep.”

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